In a perfect world . . .

Category: Insomnia
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Time is like liquid,
an ephemeral step towards truth;
the marching forward of decades,
years,
months,
weeks,
days,
hours,
minutes
and finally seconds.
Sloppy seconds at best when you consider the moments that are totally wasted.
Time is like water,
dripping endlessly towards an endless sea of little to no meaning.
Or not.
3:13Am is no time to be kicking your legs off the covers.
Unless you can see the dials of the clock . . .

I stumbled upon this video and have become somewhat obsessed with it.
It was an entry in the 2010 Cannes Film festival.
I’ve no idea how it made out but I will tell you that the genre it was submitted to was, ‘End of the World’.
This is good stuff, IMHO
Stygian, just like this dark little river . . .

I am: in transition and wondering about my future I think: the world went to hell in a hand basket . . . I know: I miss writing I want: new teeth I have: questions, too many I wish: I could find some answers I hate: goodbyes and temporary crowns I miss: the old me I fear: insomnia and more root canals I feel: like I’m on the verge of something, maybe good, maybe bad I hear: a fan cooling my sweating cueball head (I shaved this morning) I smell: a lit cigar I crave: being 8 years old again running through my neighborhood I search: for signs of my Mom and Dad everyday I wonder: about my new neighbor next door and the fact that he wants to swindle me (NOT) I regret: not finishing college and working retail. I’m so much better than that I ache: for calm, for indigo breezes and purple sunsets I care: about the future of my three wonderful girls (I am: so lucky) I always: look before crossing Boylston Street I am not: perfect I believe: in dreams I dance: when I’ve had too much Maker’s Mark I sing: because I can I cry: more often than I believe I should I don’t always: look before crossing Boylston Street I fight: to stay alive I write: because I can’t afford therapy I never: wanted to be President I stole: my wife’s heart I listen: to things no one else seems to hear I need: a creative kick in the ass and to play my didgeridoo more I am happy about: my dear friends from Australia that will be here in less than 3 weeks.

Just updating my life status is all.
This post may turn out to be a monthly occurrence.
Tanks for the nudge, M

I am not, I repeat, not a morning person.
Never have been, never will.
Ask my wife.
Ask my kids.
Hell, ask Bill the conductor on the 6:30am train I take into Boston.
He checks my ticket and says, “Have a nice nap, sir.”
Bill would honestly say, “Definitely NOT a morning person.”
(*should be, “Not a person at all. He’s more of a thing at this time of the morning.”)
Some of you are ‘morning people’, happy, cheerful and ready to greet the new day with vim and vigor.
Sorry, you people suck.
Vermin.
You probably do 800 sit ups before your first cup of coffee too, right?
“Good Morning!”
If this phrase is spoken to me and shouted from the fiddler on the rooftops with verve and effervescent happiness,
it makes me want to do one thing:punch the face that’s brave and stupid enough to utter it.
My God, what are you thinking?
I’m still sleeping for Christ’s sake and you are seriously getting on my nerves.
I need about 4 hours to wake up.
Why the hell can’t you ‘roosters’ get that?
I need coffee, juice and a personal five-minute sitdown on the porcelain throne before someone thrusts the ‘happy’ shit on me, okay?
Ease the hell up, all you happy morning people.
You’re messing with my head.
I just choose to burn the candle at the other end (as I do a blog post at midnight).
You, on the other hand, have been sleeping for 3 hours.
But do I call you and say, How are Ya! Good Evening!
No.
I don’t.
I may send a totally incoherent email or two but that’s another story.

We all have trolls inside of us that make us act as we do.
You morning people have Richard Simmons.
Us nighthawks?
We have Ed Asner (Lou Grant) from the Mary Tyler Moore show and he hasn’t taken a decent shit in 2 years.(click on Lou up above for a classic MTM moment)
Take two steps back until my green light comes on, okay?
That’s all I’m saying.
This morning I poured orange juice into my coffee.
Mr. Grant was not real impressed.
I’ll try again tomorrow morning but it will probably be the same.
Epic Michael Fail.
My brain is chemically challenged in the morning is all.As Huey Lewis once sang, “I want a new drug . . . “

I close my eyes
trying to dream of something better than this
anything true, a slightly bruised honesty would do
Maybe it’s because nothing feels safe anymore

So I close my eyes
and dream of distant Norwegian lilies
of beautiful and colourful things, the slumbering truths of my past
Although nights of black rain are making it so hard to sleep

But I close my eyes
And dream of opening them to the tragedy of a bleeding truth;
that life is never quite what it appears to be
to these sad and sleepy eyes of mine
And that innocence can only be found caught between the teeth of angels . . .

Only my wife can say to me, (as she did tonight)
“When are you going to write something on the blog?
There’s been nothing of substance lately. Where’s the writing?”
I hate when she’s right. Write. Right.
I have a few things cued up in need of definite editing so please check back on Monday.
Thank God I have someone to give me some much needed toughlove, huh?
Not everyone is as lucky.

I’m feeling my 50 years these days a bit more than I’d like with a painful bout ofbursitis in my left knee.
I can’t seem to get the inflammation under control just yet.
Patience.
And Advil.
And some Vicodin.
And repeat.
I have some amazing and wonderful things to tell you but it’s going to
have to wait until I can sit for more than ten minutes without looking like a fat dog shitting razor blades.
Off to fill the ice bag . . . again.

Because the writer is writing and reading but promises to return . . .
After the stuffy nose has gone away.
(and the bruised ribs heal, *don’t ask,
just know that an unexpected ice patch got said writer @12:45 last Sunday morning)

I like the fact that the name ‘Hannah’ is a palindrome.
And I love the fact that my wife and I chose to call our youngest daughter Hannah.
I’m not sure why the palindrome catches my attention but it just does.
Strange, huh?
I stumbled upon a madass comedian named Demetri Martin.
He loves palindromes.
(check out his nasty little 224 word work below, it can be read the same way in either direction)
I think he’s probably nuts but I love this kind of stuff anyway.
Hannah.
God, I love her name.

Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.